Tuesday Rituals
by also known as LuLu
Summary: What do you think of Tuesdays? (Jack/Spot)


_Disclaimer:_ Not mine.  
  
_Author's Notes:_ I've had this on my computer for so long, I kind of forgot about it. This is a Jack/Spot I wrote for the fantastical, wonderful, amazing Vinyl (who I love dearly) on her birthday, which was, coincidentally, Tuesday March 11th (and don't worry, she read this fic a long time ago). Slightly different from the original version, but never you mind about that, because this oneended up better.  
  


  
_Tuesday Rituals_  
  


  
It comes up right when you don't realize it. You may be having the worst couple of days ever, but then you remember…Tuesday is soon.  
  
Tuesdays are great days…I can't think of a better day for a Manhattan newsie. For us, Tuesdays always start at sunrise, when the beams of light stream in through the Lodging House windowpanes and warm your face as Kloppman comes around to wake you up. And the day stays gorgeous the whole time through, sunny and crystal clear until the sun goes down in a flood of vivid, fiery oranges and reds and you eventually fall asleep under an inky sky full of diamonds.  
  
On Tuesdays, the headline is always good, and papes are sold like the hottest merchandise you've ever seen. It's like we're practically giving them away, they go so fast, and you barely have to improve the truth to do it. And real truth be told, the only way you can have bad sales if you stay home in bed that day, but trust me, not even Skitts does that.  
  
Think it can't get any better? Trust me, it does.  
  
Because it's Tuesday, and because it's such a good day, we make Tuesday night poker night in Manhattan. Everyone's got cash to spare that night, and the ones who don't mind risking a few cents gather around the center of the bunkroom and test their luck. Racetrack's always the organizer, always the one with the deck of cards and the rules straight in his head. Usually Kid Blink, Specs, and Bumlets are the other regulars in the game. The rest of the players rotate in and out, depending on the night. Skittery will play until he loses maybe two bits and then he'll get grumpy and quit for a while. Snitch used to play until they figured out he kept an ace in his left sleeve, so now he's been barred from playing. He just watches now with Boots and Snipes. Itey or Mush will drop in the game now and then, and so will Snoddy and Crutchy. Crutchy's actually pretty good, if you'd believe it, but he doesn't play often because he doesn't like to risk his earnings.  
  
I used to be one of the regulars, all those Tuesdays ago, but then I quit cold turkey. Besides, I let another one take my place.  
  
Tuesday is also the day Spot makes his pilgrimage to Manhattan, just so he can play poker with the boys. He's the one I let take my position in the group, right across the table from Race. I mean, the guy comes from such a long way, he should be able to play the whole night, don't you think? Yeah, me too.  
  
Poker's become a real spectator sport since Spot started playing. He and Race are always reaching for the skies, trying to beat the other. More and more people watch each week, huddling around with reverent hushes during the tense parts and oohs and aahs at the end of every hand. The stakes are always rising. It starts out at a penny, then it goes to two pennies, three, four, a nickel, a dime, two bits, four bits…it just keeps going as people keep backing out. Even Blink, who's got one hell of a poker face from what I know, folds after the pot hits four bits. And then, when it's just the two of them, the bets will hit a new height, and in my opinion, that's where it gets the most interesting.  
  
They'll look at each other casually. Race will arch an eyebrow; Spot will tilt his chair back at just the slightest angle. Race speaks first, and offers up one of the Havanas he keeps in a locked box. I'll tell you now, Race doesn't even keep his cash in a locked box…of course, no one wants to steal that. Snipes always has his eye on one of those Havanas, though. But anyway. Race will bet one of those, and Spot will bet his cane. I bet you're wondering why he doesn't bet his key. I'll get to that later. He always bets his cane, and with that, an outsider will deal, just to be sure there's no cheating. This hand is without fail the one that's always played the most carefully. And since it's started, it's always had the same outcome.  
  
Spot wins that Havana and gets to keep his own goods in the deal. He always excuses himself after that, too, so he can smoke it, and so Racetrack can work on getting back his dignity. He'll leave out the front as Race, starting with the one-penny crowd again, deals, and he'll make his way out back.  
  
This is where I come in, by the way.  
  
Out back, I'm sitting on the bottom rung of the fire escape, smoking one of my cigarettes. I always have a few extras for Tuesday nights, just because I need something to keep myself busy while that poker game goes on. He and I will look at each other and he'll grin because of his good luck. After biting off the tip of his prize, he'll ask for a light; I'll give him one. We'll sit there for a few minutes in silence, puffing away on our smokes, listening to the cheers and laughter from the continuing game inside.  
  
When I finish mine and throw down my butt, he'll take his Havana out of his mouth and let out a long exhalation of smoke. And then we watch it like it's the most revered and remarkable thing in the world. It twists and writhes in the air, slowly drifting towards the sky. It's really something to watch, the smoke from a Havana. The smoke from Spot's Havana. I've seen something like this come from one of Race's cigars, but it's nothing like Spot's. Spot's smoke is something all its own.  
  
As we watch that smoke, Spot leans through it to look right at me, right in the eyes. And then he drops his Havana into the alley, though the first few times I didn't realize it until much later. Now I always hear the dull, barely traceable sound it makes when it hits the ground and think of it as a sign. If he drops his cane, I've sure as hell never heard it. Using the sound as a cue, he'll then reach up and pull my head down just a little, so he doesn't have to stand on his tiptoes to kiss me. When our lips meet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like we've always been doing it, even though we both know it only started when Tuesday poker nights did.   
  
We kiss as the Havana Spot dropped wastes away below us. God, if Race knew he threw away half of a Havana like that, he'd kill us both. But it sure as hell wouldn't stop us from doing it anyway. Spot's kisses taste like stale bread and Cuban tobacco, and I don't think there's any way to duplicate a taste like that outside of his mouth. Usually I close my eyes, but if they aren't closed, I can see the smoke slowly rising behind his head. And though I know it's heading for the stars and I used to wish so bad that I could make my way up there too, with Spot's mouth on mine, I could care less where I am, as long as I'm there with him.   
  
After a while we'll get tired of kissing, or maybe that's just when the smoke stops escalating, our cue that the Havana has consumed itself. I'm still not sure which of us breaks it, even after all this time, but when it happens I tuck my head in the crook between his neck and his shoulder and close my eyes, taking in the scent of his skin. If he went swimming that morning, it smells like river water and on him it smells like that fancy stuff Medda wears for her shows...maybe even better. I'll reach under his shirt, grab his key, and just hold it, letting the cold metal warm in my hand. That's why he never bets it. Spot'll keep his mouth next to my ear, his breath warm. And we'll stay there, just like that, for an even longer time than before, letting the scents, the sounds, the touches, the feelings soak in and form a second skin that connects us together.  
  
We only move when we can hear them calling for us inside, the poker game finished. Spot backs away and smiles at me; I smile back and hop down from the fire escape. We kiss once more, brief but deep, right before he ducks through the side window into the bunkroom again. I come in through the front, saying I stopped by Mouth's to see his sister, but I'm sure the smell from the Havana (and our reversed entrances) gives me away. If they don't believe it, I don't care.  
  
With the spoils won, Race grabs a fellow newsie (usually Mush) and shoves the table back against the wall. It's late by then, and most nights, Spot stays in a spare bunk, just a few beds from mine. On Wednesdays I walk him as far as the Brooklyn Bridge; we spit-shake before we part ways. A spit-shake is more intimate than you think…but don't read into every spit-shake the same way. This is just a special case for us, and I thought I'd mention it.  
  
After that, Wednesdays just aren't anywhere near as good as Tuesdays. Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and Mondays too. But that's okay, because our Tuesday rituals give me a high that lasts for most of those few days more, and even when it's worn down, everything always turns out fine, because…  
  
…guess what tomorrow is.  



End file.
